


If I gave you my heart

by espritneo



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Ballroom Dancing, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, First Time, M/M, Misunderstandings, Porn with Feelings, Romance, Sexual Frustration, Sexual Tension, St. Petersburg, Switching, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-16 12:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9271508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/espritneo/pseuds/espritneo
Summary: Or, how Yuuri Katsuki woos Victor Nikiforovback.In which, Victor is head over heels in love and prefers self-denial over communication. Yuuri is oblivious and accidentally an asshole.





	1. Act I - Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi and drop suggestions on [my tumblr](http://espritneo.tumblr.com).

**Act I. In which Yūri is confused**

Victor was the most chaste and physically affectionate man in the world.

_Wait, what?_

Most days, Yūri was amazed that he firmly believed this to be true.

As he jogged down the Marakova embankment to the Tuchkov bridge, he passed a metro map sharing space with a debauched Victor Nikiforov splayed across a bed of roses, dress shirt half-open, staring at pedestrians with such allure it probably made the men of St. Petersburg go out and buy that shirt and a bouquet of roses in the same shade of romance.

Flesh-and-blood Victor tended to favor excessive skinship over romantic gestures. He preferred walking arm-in-arm with Yūri to his favorite coffee shop and sharing a blanket on the couch after dinner. He showered Yūri with undivided attention, unconditional support, and unbridled joy.

Victor Nikiforov saved his charm for the camera and the ice.

But…was it selfish to want a little bit of that, too? Yūri heaved an enormous, dejected sigh.

Mooning over a billboard. He was a _mess_.

His jog took him over the Neva river, where the seagulls flew overhead and occasionally delivered presents on his head. It had happened once or twice in the four months he’d lived in St. Petersburg, no joke. The first time, he was the pace setter for their group run. The droppings had slid down the back of his neck into his thermal and Mira had never laughed so hard in her life. Victor – the utter traitor – and Yura had looked torn and constipated.

The second time, he had been alone with Maccachin, although Yūri strongly suspected the poodle’s lolling tongue was secretly laughing at him, too. He’d been a brat and refused to give their dog any treats that night until hours of confused eyes from _both_ Nikiforovs broke his resolve.

Unlike Hasetsu’s horizon, the waters of St. Petersburg contained many moving ships. Instead of sand and rocks, there were warehouses and heavy industrial docks. In these respects, St. Petersburg reminded Yūri more of Detroit. Ironically, Detroit was where he struggled with the idea of sex and romantic relationships.

He’d moved far away and far beyond his time in America, but it seemed pieces of it remained in him.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When he got home, the apartment smelled amazing, like garlic, beef and mushrooms. Maccachin barked in greeting and tried to bowl him over as soon as he closed the door. Yūri gave him lots of hugs and kisses and let himself be rumpled a bit as it had been eight hours since he’d last seen Maccachin and every second mattered.

Losing Vicchan taught him that.

“Yuu~~ri!” Victor sang and landed on his back – adoringly – barely missing Yūri’s glasses. “Yuu~ri,” And this was one of Yūri’s favorite sounds, the way his name glided off Victor’s tongue and how he couldn’t say it in less than three syllables, like it deserved to be rolled around, savored, and released into the air. “How was practice? Did Lilia let you see her today?”

“Not yet, the assistant instructors say soon. They’re keeping her appraised and she’ll see me as soon as I’m ready.”

One of Yūri’s goals while he had access to Lilia Barakovskaya was to regain some of the flexibility he had before moving to America. Between Yakov and Victor, they had gotten her to see him and she agreed to lessons, provided he work on his developpé with the team, first.

Victor rubbed his cheek against Yūri’s hair. “I missed you, Yūri. You were gone a long time.”

‘Hai, hai,” Yūri hoisted his coach – fiancé? – onto his back and took them both into the kitchen. He peered into the slow cooker. The stew bubbled invitingly with fifteen more minutes on the timer.

Victor transferred onto the counter without relinquishing his hold and released a great, satisfied sigh into the crook of Yūri’s neck. He was warm and Yūri gave into his desire to wrap arms around his striped shirt and share some of the heat radiating from soft, pale skin…

Yūri brushed chapped lips along the strained edge of his trapezius, from shoulder to the base of his ear, feeling goosebumps rise in his wake.

Victor inhaled sharply and gently, but firmly, pushed Yūri back. “Yūri, the timer’s about to go off!”

Without waiting for a reply, he bounced off the counter, and bustled about to set the table with plates and silverware. He retrieved two glasses, a wine opener, and deftly pulled the cork, pouring aromatic red wine with practiced twists of the wrist.

Yūri blinked, wondering if he’d only imagined hearing a tiny whine before Victor made him stop.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If it had been the first time, or a random occurrence, it wouldn’t bother him. But by this point - four months in St. Petersburg, five months since Barcelona where Victor insisted they were engaged, half a year since their first kiss -  it was common for Victor to keep their physical relationship chaste. Yūri…wasn’t entirely sure why. He knew Victor had very strong feelings for him. He could feel it in every embrace and half-hug, in the tips of his fingers as the other man stroked his face or hair. He heard it in the adoration in his voice, the delight he expressed to others, the jealousy that sometimes emerged. He could see it on the ice, in the sharpness of his edge, the express longing in his arms.

Victor Nikiforov’s body did not lie.

Depth of emotion wasn’t the issue. Attraction couldn’t possibly be, either; their early days in Hasetsu and the pictures of Sochi’s banquet were irrefutable proof.

Yūri couldn’t figure it out. And maybe the old Yūri would have respected the signs and backed off, but not Victor’s Yūri. The old Yūri had dreamed of Victor Nikiforov for over a decade and would have been ecstatic to be his friend and competitor and proudly borne a bond through skating and rivalry.

Victor’s Yūri was different; he was the old Yūri with over a year of learning Victor-the-person. Victor’s Yūri had earned his trust and devotion. Victor’s Yūri had moved the man with his skating.

Victor’s Yūri felt entitled to hold onto Victor Nikiforov for as long as the man would have him. And that meant trying again and again, until one of them broke free.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rink was least busy in the mornings, when Yakov liked to hold training sessions with the national team. Yūri occasionally came with Victor to practices  and he used the time away from his coach to experiment with the effects of his ballet training. His legs had grown supple and his hips were allowed greater freedom of movement and he delighted in the expressiveness he could draw out of his body.

Without really meaning to, he fell into the opening steps of _Ai ni Tsuite: Eros_.

He made sure to avoid the other skaters as he covered more and more of the ice. Yuri and a junior division skater – Erik – were his primary concern. But he noticed that heads were starting to turn.

Yakov. Victor.

Yūri flashed Victor a wink as he passed him with backward crossovers. The other man kept his eyes on him and Yūri got a bit daring. He mentally pulled up his first _Eros_ persona – the woman – and let his movements exaggerate the pull of feminine beauty.

But no, that was kind of boring.

He thought about the pictures from the Sochi banquet that Victor must have used as a reference and imagined being that intense, drunken Yūri with eyes only for the gold medalist. The drunken Yūri who danced whole-heartedly to entice and captured Victor with the novelty of focused confidence and attention.

 _Be my coach, Victor_. Be _anything_ , Victor, just be mine. I want to _make you_ mine. And only I can do it, that’s what your body tells me.

His dancing took on a rougher edge, sharpening the cant of his hips and the turn of his arms and wrists. His jumps were forceful punctuations in the story. He found himself gasping for breath – _this really was a difficult program_ – and he entered his final combination spin with more speed and aggression than he really needed.

He unfurled into the ending and held his final pose with effort, panting and exhilarated. In the background, he could hear Yuri screeching at him for being a show-off.

Yūri skated to the barrier - hips and thighs screaming - smiling. “How was that?”

Victor had a death grip on his thermos. His right eye was blown out and he had an odd expression on his face, cheeks flushed and slightly damp. Yūri gave an involuntary shiver and his eyes fell on Victor’s lax mouth, the shining lips.

He licked his own. His throat felt dry.

Yūri found himself leaning closer, only to have Victor suddenly push his thermos into his hands and plant a loving kiss over his bangs.

“That was perfect, _solnyshko_ ,” He murmured, unusually hoarse. His lips brushed Yūri’s skin as he spoke. “Drink up. I’ll be right back.”

The Russian awkwardly turned in his skates, deaf to Yakov’s shouting, and limped towards the locker room.

When he returned half an hour later, Yūri was working on his jumps and Yakov arrested him by the door with a lecture the entire rink could hear. Victor pouted and made faces and took his punishment in silence. But their own coaching session was significantly delayed by his odd behavior.

Which Yūri didn’t get to ask him about. Victor set him on side-by-side skating with his new choreography and Yūri forgot all about it in the thrill of mirroring Victor’s movements.

They took a break for lunch, eating next to each other with their skates still on, touching shoulder to knee. Victor stole his tamagoyaki and unloaded a few cherry tomatoes. Yūri fed them back to him with his chopsticks and stole bites of his pilfered rolls.

A bench over, Yuri shoveled through his own lunch and made faces of disgust whenever he thought they were looking.

Afterwards, after more practice and cool-down and stretching, Yūri slanted down and to the side and took Victor’s skates off for him while the older man leaned on him appreciatively. Victor returned the favor and Yūri tried to stay awake.

He could use some coffee.

They packed up and left the rink arm-in-arm for their favorite coffee shop on the way home.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Game nights were probably Yūri’s favorite activity.

Those were evenings they could convince Yuri to come over and bring his Playstation 4 and the Yuris could hog the television for a few hours and make their way through a mishmash of Sony and Nintendo. Japanese Yūri excelled at first person shooters. The younger Russian regularly smacked them down on brawlers.

Victor…managed to scrape by. He could hold his own if his opponents toned down their player aggression.

On game nights, the teenager would storm into their apartment. He’d yell until they left the kitchen, complain loudly about the lack of a heavy-bottomed pot, and the older skaters would curl up on the couch and co-op Pikmin while they waited until the pirozhkis were fried.

On game nights, Victor would ply Yūri with vodka until the two Russians were able to railroad his sniper.

The best part about game nights, though, happened once Yura passed out on the sofa and Victor carried Yūri tipsily to bed. Too drunk to bother stripping down, they’d huddle under the covers. Yūri would get really, _really_ close and he’d rub the bridge of his nose against Victor’s, their fingers tangling in the space between their bodies. Victor would survey him with half-lidded sea-blue eyes and Yūri would stare back, daring the Russian to close the gap.

Yūri would be drunk enough to chatter at him in Japanese, waxing poetic over the elegance of his long fingered hands and the softness of his wrists and how unfairly pretty his eyes were. He’d chatter and he’d watch in drunken fascination as Victor’s ears turned red in the moonlight and his fingers crept up the sleeve of Yūri’s shirt – no farther – and he’d close his eyes, press the side of his face against the pillow to mute Yūri with unspeakably chaste kisses that belied the wildness Yūri felt under his fingertips.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Victor’s – _their_ \- shower was modern decadence of glass and tile, two meters long, with high-pressure full-body shower nozzles and a built-in shaving bench on each end just because Victor Nikiforov couldn’t decide where he wanted to shave his face ( _Yūri, I shave more than that, you know_.)

He had also installed a rainfall shower head in the center.

Days Yūri didn’t accompany Victor to his morning practice were days for him to indulge in an extra hour of sleep and a long, hot morning shower.

Yūri gratefully stood under the gentle mist one morning, not up for braving the jets before he was fully awake. Steaming droplets landed and rolled down his hair, shoulders and arms, and with his head fully immersed, the outside world seemed kilometers and kilometers away beyond the thunder echoing in his eardrums. He leaned back against the tiles with his eyes closed and sighed, feeling utterly spoiled.

His morning erection was still half-hard and he took himself in hand, stroking unhurriedly. The water fell on his torso like a tingly, wet blanket. He could feel his nipples tighten under the hot rain and he sped up his hand, twisting to envelop the head.

Distantly, a Maccachin toy gave an abnormally full-bodied squeak and a door slammed, followed by muffled thumping and cursing.

Yūri sighed and opened his eyes, his hips already chasing the rising burn in his belly. That sounded urgent.

He finished himself off quickly, patted down, and wrapped the wet towel around his waist.

“Victor?” He called out. Victor yelped. He shoved his glasses on and opened the bathroom. Victor, red-faced, shifted awkwardly by the sofa, a guilty wrinkle around the corners of his eyes. He was in a full tracksuit despite the weather, hands shoved deep in his pockets, jacket zipped to the collar.

Yūri squinted at him. “Victor, I heard noises.”

“Ah,” Victor smiled sheepishly. “I tripped over Maccachin.”

That would explain the guilt. Maccachin, tail _taptaptapping_ next to the front door, had already forgotten all about it.

Victor, face calm except for his _wide, wild eyes_ , had yet to intiate a hug. Yūri frowned and held his arms out, an unmistakable request.

The other man, already leaning forward, froze and jerked back, then bounded over and wrapped him up in a careful embrace, burying his face in Yūri’s hair. Yūri, warm and drowsy from his shower exertions, sighed and reached across the small gap between their bodies to return the gesture as best as he could, uncaring as his hair dripped all over his back and accidentally seeped into the red and white fabric.

The older man vibrated under his touch.

Yūri pulled back to face him fully. “Is there some reason you’re home early? I thought we had practice.”

Victor was staring at his own hands. They spanned Yūri’s sides, from hipbone to the swell of his bottom. Yūri could feel faint changes in pressure as Victor’s fingertips flexed over the cotton.

“I offered. Yakov. Lilia.” Victor slowly peeled his fingers away, one at a time.  He gave Yūri a genuinely eager smile. “Switch. She requested to switch and I’m passing the message. We’ll start practice at 3 so you can head to the performance center instead of the rink.”

Yūri lit up with excitement, all else forgotten.

He whirled towards the bedroom, disregarding the slide of heavy, wet cotton down his ass, and started to rummage for his underwear and leggings. They couldn’t just be any material. It was his first day with _Lilia Baranovskaya_.

Behind him, “Yū - Yūri, I’m taking Maccachin for a run,” Victor said frantically, tone uncommonly high-pitched. The door noisily opened and closed.

A thought occurred to Yūri. “Victor, wait!” He stuck his head out and yelled down the hall. “In your jacket? You’ll faint!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, Victor? You " _tripped over_ " your most favorite creature in the entire world and he just got over it? Mmmhmm.


	2. Act I, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday! I wasn't going to post until tomorrow because I'm extremely nervous, but I'm sitting here in a black JSF zip-up (Yuuri's tracksuit) and feeling celebratory.
> 
> Thanks so much for all the feedback and attention. I was extremely surprised! And responding to comments was a lot of fun.
> 
> READ THIS FYI: Chapter 1 got additional scenes (thanks to a certain reviewer, I hope you know who you are and I hope you'll at least find it funny.) 
> 
> As for this chapter's content. I'm. I am so, so, so sorry. (Except I'm really not. I thought it was nice.)  
> Be kind.

They had a comfortable routine on their days off.

Victor would sleep in and not rise til eight. Yūri and Maccachin preferred to stay huddled in bed til ten. By the time the two wandered into the kitchen, hair and fur upright and ridiculous, Victor would have a pot of coffee half-empty and brunch nearly ready. Sometimes, they went out with Maccachin and Yūri learned a little bit more of St. Petersburg. With every walking excursion, the city settled deeper into Yūri’s bones and his steps grew sure and steady.

Most days, they stayed in, Yūri and Maccachin blanketing Victor as he read from his small library behind the couch. Maccachin had a habit of laying his head on the small of Yūri’s back, which the dark-haired man thought was kind of an odd position. On the rare occasion, Maccachin would get a little beligerent and fight Yūri for space on Victor’s chest, which never failed to make Victor laugh – a light, tinkling sound – and Yūri puff his cheeks in consternation.

On days off, Yūri felt the brunt of Victor’s single-minded affection. And on days off spent lazing around the apartment, the affection stoked a familiar, simmering fire in his belly.

After dinner, Yūri, comfortably buzzed and full, accepted a loving kiss on the cheek and turned his face to capture Victor’s lips. Gray eyelashes widened in surprise and Yūri took advantage of the momentary lapse to flick his tongue across that plush bottom lip the way he’d been wanting to for _days, weeks, months_.

Victor’s eyes fluttered shut with a groan and he obediently tilted his head and returned the gesture with an open-mouthed kiss, one hand cupping the side of Yūri’s neck and keeping him positioned perfectly for Victor to taste again and again. And this was good, this was perfect. Yūri reciprocated every kiss, did his best to show Victor that this was fine, it was okay, he _wanted this_.

Victor pressed a little closer and Yūri added a hint of teeth to make him gasp and lightly ventured inside to run the tip of his tongue in the sensitive place behind his teeth. Victor fairly growled and gripped his neck tighter, with both hands now, fingers possessively drifting higher to cup his jaw. Yūri found himself breathing through his nose, suddenly aroused as Victor tried to eat his way in through his mouth.

He must have made some noise, audible through the ringing in his ears. Blue eyes popped open, pupils dilated with wine and want and then his lips were cold.

Victor reluctantly let go and scooted back, taking in measured breaths. “I need to get up early tomorrow.” He laughed at himself and rubbed the nape of his neck as he stood and headed for the doorway.

“Victor, wait,” Yūri frowned, trying to think clearly enough to form sentences, because, _was he seriously leaving now?_ “Is something wrong?”

“Yūri?” Victor looked surprised. Yūri kept frowning and he smiled. “Of course not. Everything’s great.” He leaned in and planted a gentle kiss on the side of Yūri’s head.

Yūri almost believed him, if he weren’t fully aware of that particular expression. That was Victor’s most disingenuous smile. Paired with the soft tone, it fooled skaters and media alike.

“I know you’re lying, Victor. Is it so bad, what we’re doing, that we can’t talk about it? I can tell something’s holding you back, but I’m not very good at reading people. I don’t know if this is something that I can fix or if it’s my place to try.” Yūri swallowed. He clenched his hands and forced himself to continue. “I can’t imagine you doing anything you don’t want to, so, I’m doing my best to not overreact and assume it’s me that’s the problem. Is it something I can change? Is there anything I can do? Victor, you - ”

“What? No,” Victor’s hands enveloped his, thumbs soothing the tension out of his fingers. “ _Solnyshko_ , I don’t want to force you into anything you don’t want to do.” His hands trembled imperceptibly. He was looking at Yūri straight in the eye and mostly hiding the nerves when he added, “Even me. I don’t want you to feel like you need to do this with me, Yūri.” His voice broke and he ducked his head. “Damn.”

“I – I don’t understand. I _want_ this. Victor, I want – I don’t understand why you think otherwise.”

Victor breathed in. Out. Again. “The banquet a year ago,” he started, haltingly, smoothing his fingers over the back of his hands slowly, repetitively. It seemed to calm him down. “You don’t remember it. And I did things in Japan, I treated it like we had history…but you don’t remember and for you, it was the first time and I made you uncomfortable and I was so miserable when I found out…and I didn’t want to _assume_ things were different now. I didn’t want to - ”

“Victor, it’s okay,” Yūri interrupted. Victor looked up, eyes bright and unfairly pretty. “I want to get closer to you. I want to kiss and hold you and you stop holding yourself back from holding me. I want to have sex and I want you to fuck me. In bed, at first, then maybe the couch and the shower and wherever we can get away with it.”

Victor’s eyes grew rounder with every word. He bit his lip. Yūri could read the question in the drop in his shoulders, the color in his cheeks.

“Yes, now would be nice – ah!” With a sharp yank, Yūri slid off the couch and into Victor’s lap.

The older man bracketed his body against the furniture, already picking up where they left off. Yūri inhaled and let Victor’s lust consume him, already shivering and overly sensitive, and it still _wasn’t enough_.

Victor gripped his hair and tilted his head to kiss him better and he was trembling, heaving through his nostrils and biting in desperation. He drew Yūri’s tongue out invitingly and pounced, sucking on it and massaging the corners of Yūri’s jaw. He opened his eyes, pupils completely dilated, and he must have seen something on Yūri’s face. He gave a muffled sound and kissed him harder, arms wrapped around his shoulders and pinning him against the cushions.

Yūri gave as good as he had. Victor tasted divine, cloves and honey sparking across the tip of his tongue, and the other man was a ridiculously good kisser, finding all of Yūri’s sensitive areas and sending waves of want coursing down his body. He shifted almost hysterically, using the balls of his feet to undulate against the firm muscles pressed against his cock. His fingers tensed and released into the fine silver strands at the base of Victor’s head.

Victor bit and moaned into his collarbone, shuddering and flexing his hips up sharply, once, twice, before settling and practically ripping Yūri’s shirt over his head. He nipped up the side of Yūri’s neck and Yūri could feel the bruises blooming in his wake, pulled on his hair to make him go _harder_.

Victor whined instead. Yūri pulled his shirt off in retaliation. As soon as he was free, Victor gripped his neck and shoulder and the world spun. Then he was on his back, all friction lost, and a silver head was making its way down his chest, cobalt irises demanding. Victor swiped a nipple and teethed the bud, holding him down as he yelped and bucked.

“Fuck, Oh, god, Victor!”

Victor worried the skin with lips, teeth and tongue until Yūri’s neck ached from staring and he dropped his head back. Only then did the Russian move on, swapping sides while long fingers fumbled the elastic of his joggers. He hauled Yūri’s pants off almost violently, hoisting Yūri’s legs onto his elbow and spent several minutes getting acquainted with the tender, scarred skin on his belly and thighs.

“Yūri, you taste amazing, thank you, _solnyshko_ ,” Victor babbled endless compliments into the light definition of his abs and the ligament leading down to his groin. “I’m going to make you feel so good.”

“Victor,” Yūri groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. His erection was painful in his boxers and his skin alternated between heat of Victor’s tongue and transient coolness of the Russian’s breath. “Victor, god, _bed?_ ” Victor sucked a particularly large hickey into the back of his knee and his body twitched and spurted a little.

“Fuck,” Victor sounded entranced. Wet heat enveloped the head of his clothed cock and Victor sucked gently, moaning with reverence. Yūri felt a screech of denial escape his throat and clawed the carpet.

“Victor, Victor, you’ve got to stop, oh my god, I’m going to come.” He managed to get out. He felt the other man move away and rest his forehead on Yūri’s thigh. They both gasped for breath. Yūri heaved his head upright and gave a strangled, garbled sound, reaching out to cover the other man’s grip on his own erection. “Victor, you’re going to be the death of me.”

Victor grinned at him unrepentantly, perspiration dotting his forehead and cheeks and clumping his bangs in a way that shouldn’t be attractive, but just made Yūri want to turn the tables. “Sorry, _solnyshko_ , I couldn’t help myself. You’re too much.”

Yūri kissed his forehead and said firmly, “Bed, Victor. You’re going to fuck me, right?”

Victor cursed in Russian and tightened his grip. Yūri prodded him upright and they raced to the bedroom, clothes flying. Maccachin received a rude awakening, barked indignantly and ran out, much to their relief.

Yūri closed the door just in case and they toppled into the sheets, Victor on top, bossily prodding them both to the head of the bed. Yūri laughed breathlessly in delight and in love, unable to believe this gorgeous, impatient man, who was already reaching for the drawer on the bedside table and taking out what they needed.

Then, Victor undid the progress they made across the sheets by pulling Yūri’s naked body back onto his lap and making him giggle. He paused, large, warm hands rubbing long smooth lines across Yūri’s skin, from knees to shoulders. Yūri shivered, feeling safe and secure, but fixated on the heat in his eyes.

“You’re beautiful, Yūri. You’re so, so pretty,” Victor said, almost to himself. He hoisted Yūri a little closer, his body forcing Yūri to spread his legs and expose himself. “I love this,” He traced small circles in the curve of his hip, “and this,” light pressure drawn across his waist. “And I think you have the loveliest nipples. They’re so sensitive.”

His nipples were already throbbing and the flutter of lips, left and right, sent a jolt straight to his dick. Yūri gasped.

“I loved those already. I’m looking forward to get to know you here,” he stroked his hands over Yūri’s ribs and legs, “All of these make you extraordinary on the ice. I watch you and I want you more and more. I want to make this so, so good for you.”

Yūri felt his face combust. Victor peered up at him and chuckled, eyes smoldering and framed by long, silver lashes. “I want to get to know you here,” He whispered, cupping Yūri and stroking him once, base to tip. Yūri shuddered and closed his eyes, his world narrowing to the deep voice and traveling touch. “And here, and here,” A finger trailed over his balls and pressed harder along his perineum. He heard a click and a lubed finger continued down to his entrance.

“I especially look forward to getting to know you here, darling,” Yūri melted into the dark chocolate sound and gentle circling. A slick hand pumped his hardness with slow, easy motions.

“Yūri, have you done this before?”

Yūri, floating in sensation, shook his head dreamily. He heard Victor swallow and chased him with his hips impatiently, sighing when his hands continued. Victor’s legs spread under him and he coaxed a finger inside, testing the muscle and retracting. Lips trailed wet, open kisses across his belly and Yūri felt his muscles relax and an odd pressure entered his body briefly, teasing, over and over, until he stopped focusing on his ass and was swept up in his arousal.

He wanted to touch Victor and so he did. He reached out, eyes still closed, mouth parted, until he found broad shoulders. He learned the contours of his deltoids, the emergence of triceps and biceps under the curve of his shoulders. Victor made a small, frightened sound and his touch slowed and became impossibly tender. His nose was cold as he nudged over the bumps of Yūri’s ribs.

Yūri wasn’t sure how far along they were – he felt full, but suspected they were just getting started – and pushed back demandingly, making Victor huff out a laugh, tickling his side, add more lube and another finger introduced itself to the edge of his awareness.

Yūri didn’t know how much time had passed in meditation, in permission to freely study the shape of Victor’s body with touch alone.

“Mmm, Victor,” he sighed, smiling broadly, drifting in an ocean of thrumming desire. “You’re _so pretty_ , it’s amazing.”

Victor shifted abruptly and made a small, wounded sound, a punched out gasp through closed lips. His erection bumped and slid across the back of Yūri’s thigh. “Yuu~ri~,” he groaned. “You can’t _do that_. Oh,” The muscles under Yūri’s hands tensed and quivered even as the other man continued to work him open. Victor’s cock left a trail that he thrust into and spread messily over Yūri’s skin. “I think you’re almost ready. Do you feel ready?”

Yūri had no idea. Victor’s fingers, three of them, reached deeper, curled, and only Victor’s arm across his hip bone kept him from flying off the bed.

“Do that again!” Yūri demanded, feeling a renewed flush on his cheeks, his erection twitching eagerly.

Victor surged up and Yūri opened his eyes in time to see the wrecked look on his face and it just made his blood boil and tipped him straight out of low-level arousal and back into intense sparks. Victor kissed him messily, uncoordinated. His fingers thrust into him, shaking and unsteady, mostly missing his prostate, but the idea of being fucked, of having Victor _fucking into him_ sent his pulse into overdrive, _thumpthumping_ erratically in his ears and vibrating against the frantic beat of Victor’s heart against his chest.

Yūri pulled him closer, writhing because he was still too far away, even with Yūri’s death grip on hair and Yūri doing his best to suck them into one through his tongue. Victor squeezed his eyes and moaned when Yūri traced his own tongue over the muscle between his lips, hands stuttering and flailing, and struggling to get them positioned when they were all wet and slippery. It sounded like he was whining for mercy and Yūri stubbornly continued, tracing the contour of Victor’s tongue. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked harder, rewarded with a sudden inhale and Victor’s throat taking a higher pitch.

Finally, Victor had a firm grip on his ass with one hand and blunt pressure intruded on his outer ring. Yūri let go and dropped back, arching to ease the strange sensation.

“Shh, shh, darling, relax, I’ve got you,” Yūri focused on the minute expressions on his face – tension, worry, love – and distracted himself by cupping a hand on Victor’s face and stroking his cheekbones, the dip under his _bright, bright_ eyes, so unfairly pretty.

Victor’s hand on his cock, stroking steadily, helped. Waves of pleasure radiated outward from his core and Victor’s thrusts get deeper and deeper, stimulating new nerves. Victor pulled his legs up on his shoulders and leaned in, bending Yūri in half, and started moving his hips in earnest.

Inanely, Yūri thought that his training came in really handy during sex.

The rest of him was overwhelmed by the experience of having Victor inside of him. His cock was hard, hot friction, rubbing against his walls, and filling him completely, _oh so perfect_. Victor was a heavy, reassuring weight, claiming his lips, sipping at his mouth leisurely even while his hips relentlessly stirred his insides.

One particular thrust sent sparks of electricity down his limbs and Yūri gave a muffled yelp, hips moving backward instinctively. Victor tucked his head into Yūri’s throat and babbled lowly, “Yes, there, I have you, darling, I want you to feel so, so good, I’m not going to last much longer, fuck, you’re so hot.” Teeth scraped hard over his pulse. Victor gripped his shoulders firmly and directed the same single-minded attention to turning Yūri into a passionate, writhing demon.

Yūri threw his head back and struggled to breathe, moaning silently with the lights exploding behind his eyes. His hips were moving of their own volition, faster,  chasing unbridled pleasure building in the base of his spine. He wrapped his legs around Victor’s waist and arched his back into an impossible curve until they were supporting their weight on the top of his head, on Victor’s knees.

They cursed, in Russian, in Japanese, at the change in position. Victor was pressed against his hardness now, blowing Yūri’s mind with last piece of the puzzle. He scrabbled for leverage, hands finding the headboard and he frantically pushed against it, their hips meeting with increasing frequency, his stiff cock mashed against Victor’s rigid abs.

Yūri tensed first, squirming and coming helplessly between them with a shout. It triggered Victor’s own orgasm, hoarse, rutting into him even as they fell limply onto the mattress.

Yūri gasped for air, shivering, sensitive and high on endorphins. He couldn’t feel his arms and legs, but he managed to find an arm to sling across Victor’s heaving shoulders, cupping the nape of his neck.

Victor sighed, content.

When Victor began to soften inside him, the older man pulled back, one hand on the condom, the other hand pushing Yūri’s bangs out of his eyes. The Russian scrutinized his face. “Darling, how are you?”

“Amazing,” Yūri confessed, bringing a new flush to Victor’s cheeks. He tugged on Victor’s forearm and brought the unresisting man close enough to chase the heated skin with kisses. “That was amazing. Thank you.”

Victor shook his head and smiled, lips tremulous. He tipped forward to rest his brow on Yūri’s, eyes oddly intense. “You’re the best thing to ever happen to me, _solnyshko_. You deserve nothing less than amazing.”

He pressed a reverential kiss on Yūri’s forehead. He was soft enough that the movement pulled him out and Yūri mourned the loss. Victor just kissed him again and whispered that he’d be right back before rising and making his way to the bathroom on unsteady legs.

Yūri stretched sore muscles and grinned goofily at their bedroom ceiling.

Victor Nikiforov was a romantic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh haha. The only advice I might have is: "Come for the smut, stay for the fluff." 
> 
> And so Yuuri overcomes a hurdle and lives happily ever after. 
> 
> No? What do you mean, it's not over? What do you mean, Victor's still in denial?
> 
> Act II, Part I: _Yūri wasn’t sure whether it was a problem that needed to be addressed or if he just needed to get used to it. The latter didn’t sound terribly fair. Yūri must feel showering Victor with sexual affection was important or he wouldn’t be_ gravitating _to it so much._


	3. Act II, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some bits may be a bit more confusing than usual:  
> 1\. The tango estilo milonguero is actually danced with the upper torsos touching, but a respectable distance from the waist down. Obviously, this would be challenging on the ice, so Victor's actually keeping them further apart and they're only touching on the cheek and hand placements. And I was a sucker for the idea. It paints a pretty picture in my head.
> 
> 2\. The latin club song they dance to is a remix of Fuego, by Juanes. [youtube video here](https://youtu.be/kyb9Bz7uDLE). I like the original, but it would be more likely to have club remix than an acoustic rock song.
> 
> 3\. I don't know where all this latin dancing came from, except IT'S ROMANTIC, OKAY, and I have a MIGHTY NEED now. And it might be influenced by [Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir](https://youtu.be/GmqE_mphpGs). And I don't think they're ballroom savvy. I can imagine Yuuri might pick up some from dance classes in Detroit. And I did not know this but, majority of professional latin ballrom dancer are from _Russia_. So yeah, Victor has a few places he could have picked up the basics.
> 
> 4\. I want Victor and Yuuri dancing to the salsa to appear on my tumblr dash. I also have a mighty need for that, ngl.

Act II – In which Yūri hits a wall

 

Victor was the most romantic and physically affectionate man in the world.

He took Yūri on elegant dinner dates based upon the cuisine he missed most that week. Flowers, purchased or spontaneously picked, appeared on a regular basis. Victor swept him up in impromptu dances when there was music in the streets. Yūri sometimes found idle presents – snacks, photos, thoughtful items like app suggestions and once, a quality battery charger to keep his phone going in the still-unfamiliar city and language – in Victor’s absence when the other man had to practice early or stay late. He flirted and charmed Yūri shamelessly, to the younger man’s consternation and embarrassment.

Victor held hands in public and at home. If Yūri was free, he brought him to his public obligations (and thanked him later by fucking him into multiple orgasms) and always presented him with a token of his appreciation.

Yūri was starting to feel….courted. Which confused him. He thought they were past that.

He released the stretch and switched to his left leg. The action dislodged the flower Victor tucked behind his ear this morning and Yūri absently nudged it back into place. Beyond the barrier, Victor was cooling down. Yūri hadn’t positioned himself in view of the ice on purpose, but he was definitely distracting the older man. Victor waved at him every time he skated past.

Yūri worked through the rest of his exercises, laced on his skates and tromped to the rink door. Victor slid to a t-stop and catapulted himself forward, assured he would be caught.

It never occurred to Yūri to sidestep the oncoming hazard.

Victor embraced him like he’d been gone for four days instead of four hours. “Yuu~ri~!” He trilled. “You missed the best part of my day. I landed a quad axel without the harness and I did it ten times in a set of twelve.”

“Well done,” Yūri said adoringly, hands smoothing over his back. “I knew you could get it back. I can’t wait to see it in competition. You’re going to have to add another quad jump to my program just so I can keep up.”

“We can do that,” Victor hummed happily. “We can do a double quad toe loop combination.” He released Yūri and started sculling backwards. “Now, let’s get to work, _solnyshko_. You plan to beat me, don’t you?”

Yūri grinned and stepped onto the ice. “If I beat you,” he propelled himself towards his fiancé, “You’re picking up Maccachin’s dumps the entire off-season.”

Victor wrinkled his nose. “So uncouth, Yūri. I’d rather we competed for sexual favors.” He cocked one hand on his hip and winked.

Yūri felt his ears erupt in flames. “That’s, I – Dirty.” He stuttered. “Victor, that’s so _dirty._ ”

An unexpected kiss landed on the nape of his neck, making him giggle. Victor drew him into an intimate dance, a play on the cheek-to-cheek _estilo milonguero_ , Victor’s hand on his waist keeping their bodies at arm’s length.

Yūri never felt so blatant in their display of love than when they danced the tango. There was something about the rules of contact that objectified where they touched. It certainly heightened Yūri’s awareness of his partner. Victor’s cologne had melded with his natural musk, filling Yūri’s mind with visions of pine forests damp with ocean spray. Victor’s cheek was dry, rubbing against Yūri’s as they moved, but his skin was tantalizingly smooth, inviting Yūri to purposefully extend those accidental caresses.

Victor breathed slowly, inhaling and holding in the air before releasing.

Yūri watched their skates carve small circles over the ice. A subtle change in force, they built a little momentum.

“Foot,” Victor instructed, strangely breathless.

Yūri automatically hooked his left ankle with Victor’s and they spun dreamily across the frozen surface.

“I’ve found you to be rather creative, darling,” Victor murmured, his tone reminding Yūri of some particularly interesting ideas that made his cock twitch. “I think we can find some fun things to try.” Victor fingered the flower petals, not-so-innocently stroking the shell of his ear.

“You’re embarrassing,” He grumbled, smashing his palm lightly over Victor’s face.

A final turn and Victor sent him gliding, weak-kneed and wobbly. He seemed almost reluctant to let him go.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Victor adored and loved him, there was absolutely no doubt in Yūri’s mind.

They had sex several times a week. Yūri found he didn’t have to go to extra lengths to really get Victor going. There wasn’t a lot of rhyme or reason to it either, so either Victor had a lot of kinks or he wasn’t terribly particular as long as Yūri was involved.

Victor had taken his request seriously and they were nearly done christening the entire apartment. The only place left was the kitchen.

(The last few times they tried, they ended up burning food by accident.)

By far, sex in the shower was Yūri’s absolute favorite.

The problem – _was it a problem?_ – was that Victor shied away from letting Yūri make him feel good. It didn’t happen often and Yūri wasn’t the type to deliberately take charge, but sometimes, Yūri got swept up in the moment. It would be long, thick lashes, fluttering delicately over pale, rosy skin. Victor’s eyes, so dilated the blue was the thinnest ring behind endless black. His voice at times, when Yūri could make it shift two octaves yet sound like gravel, and the way it caused his stomach to twist and bottom out.

It would be his entire body and the way it begged for touch when they kissed. The way he shook so easily in Yūri’s arms. Any and all of that tended to flip Yūri’s switch. However, the instant Victor realized Yūri was doing all the work, he opted for diverting Yūri and driving him out of his mind.

He did this _without fail._ And each time, it threw Yūri out of the mood. Victor was extremely good at bringing him around, but the sudden disconnect remained unpleasant.

Yūri wasn’t sure whether it was a problem that needed to be addressed or if he just needed to get used to it. The latter didn’t sound terribly fair. Yūri must feel showering Victor with sexual affection was important or he wouldn’t be _gravitating_ to it so much.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Yūri bit back a grin at his rinkmate’s drunken enthusiasm. He tapped out an affirmative and set Victor’s phone back on the coffee table.

“Yuu~ri~,” Victor’s voice drifted out of the bathroom. “Which tie should I wear?”

The Russian, trim figure decked out in black pants and button-down, stared at his reflection with a tie in each hand. His hair was slicked back and held with liberal application of Yūri’s gel. A light gray waistcoat completed the outfit for their trip to a club.

Yūri watched him drape first the subtle deep red with metallic patterns then exchange it for a shiny blue nearly the same shade as his eyes.

“Red,” Yūri decided. It drew his eyes and his palms itched to caress the fabric. Victor tossed the other tie in his face.

“Wear that one,” the older man ordered. Yūri rolled his eyes and obediently slid the tie under his pink collar. Victor eyed him appreciatively through the mirror.

Yūri cleared his throat distractedly. “So, what’s the occasion again? Mira’s birthday?”

“Da!” Victor turned and swiftly did his knot. He tapped Yūri’s chest and kissed him on the cheek. “We’ll probably look old there.” He pulled Yūri into his arms. “We don’t have to stay long. Just showing up will go a long way.”

Yūri hummed, “maybe, but we’ll be old and well-dressed.” He hefted his weight back and let Victor keep him upright. “Spending time with your rinkmates isn’t unwelcome. You’ve hung out with Phichit.”

Victor wore a wry grin. “This isn’t exactly the same thing. Phichit’s your best friend.”

St. Petersburg at night was a welcome respite from the summer heat and they walked most of the way to the club. Georgi and Hania – the new love of his life – spotted them in line and waved from the back. At Yūri’s urging, they hung back and let the dark haired couple catch up.

The four exchanged greetings. Georgi had an arm around his girlfriend’s waist and was showing her off with great relish. He suddenly shifted, trying to get a better look in the streetlight.

“You’re couples dressed!” He exclaimed, pinching Yūri’s tie and Victor’s cheek, Victor’s tie and Yūri’s shirt, in turn. “I can’t believe you matched your fiancé’s tie to your eyes, Vitya. How vain!”

Victor looked down in mock-obliviousness. “You’re right. Oh, ne, ne, Yūri.” He tugged Yūri’s sleeve. “This calls for a selfie.”

Yūri tucked his head under Victor’s ear and grinned at the screen. Victor immediately examined the photo, holding the phone low where Yūri could see. Two-dimensional Victor and Yūri beamed against the backdrop of neon illustrations and the waiting queue. Victor-on-screen wasn’t even directing his smile to the camera. He was busy staring at Yūri.

It was a nice picture. Two handsome young men on a night out on the town.

“You’re the most handsome man on the street, darling. I’m a lucky trophy wife with good taste in ties.” Victor’s fingers flew over the screen. “My first and only love. Hashtag stpetersburg.” He narrated with smug satisfaction and uploaded the image.

“That’s so romantic,” Hania gushed, hands on her cheeks.

Victor smiled at Yūri hopefully, whole-heartedly ignoring Georgi’s peeved face. Yūri couldn’t even find it in himself to be annoyed with their game of one-upmanship.

He impulsively kissed Victor on the cheek.

Victor’s smile transmuted into a look of exaggerated disappointment. “My Yuuri is a cruel man.” He mourned, linking their fingers and bringing them to his lips. “Not even a kiss for my parched lips.”

To their relief, the club wasn’t just for the college crowd. Mira had picked a tasteful Euro-disco with a large dance floor and several levels of balcony seating.

“Yūri! Georgi!” Mira waved them over from the second floor. She already had six shotglasses pushed aside. She wobbled to her feet and gave them each a hug. “Georgi, I love the suspenders,” she tugged them out and gave him a rakish grin. “And is this your new darling?”

Victor wandered off to the bar and Yūri found himself alone with Mira, Georgi, Hania, and several Russian female skaters he still didn’t know. Two of them looked familiar, from the Cup of China.

Mira ran introductions and Yūri nodded along, although he didn’t expect to remember. The table fell into rapid, casual Russian and Yūri picked up every third word, but it doesn’t bother him terribly. Thanks to being Victor’s plus one for the past two months, he was accustomed to being involved in a sea of incomprehensible conversation in public places.

The club is packed and Victor returns from the bar nearly twenty minutes later, laden down with five drinks and a party-ready smile. Yūri thought he looked good enough to eat in his vest and tie. Maybe he could convince Victor to keep them on tonight.

Just the vest and tie.

One of the female skaters caught the look on his face and turned away to start an intense, whispered conversation.

“Yūri, come have a shot with me,” Victor chirped. He passed a third shot to the birthday girl. He handed Georgi and Hania their drinks and they raised their glasses in a toast. “To being a nineteen-year-old Grand Prix Final gold medalist,” Victor said solemnly.

They clinked and threw back the shot. Victor captured his and Mira’s hands and tugged them towards the dance floor.

They shared the lead easily among the three of them. Mira was a refreshing female partner, strong as Yūri, and even bolder when inebriated, slinking out of their grasp and turning the tables. The three of them drew onlookers and a small space opened up around them.

Yūri drank more shots and danced with nearly every skater in their party, although for most, Victor ended up cutting in with a petulant moue and whirling him in a different direction. He and Victor laughingly tried and failed to do standard ballroom in a sea of writhing bodies. He danced with the birthday girl three more times because she could get away with it.

When Mira moved on, he spotted Victor with a dark haired man, his fiancé leading the dance with a sharklike smile. His partner looked absolutely besotted.

Yūri felt some sympathy for the other man. Victor was otherworldly, and when he had you fixed in his sights, it was impossible to look away. He pushed past the throng to the bar, called up two cups of water, and meandered back to the table to wait for him. Mira, Georgi and Hania were absent, leaving the table mostly empty.

As soon as he sat down, the female skater he’d caught staring leaned over. “You’re still with Victor, yes?” She huffed a laugh. “You’re very lucky. We didn’t expect him to stick around.”

Blushing and at loss for words, Yūri smiled helplessly, scratching his ear.

“Do you think you’ll be together for long?” She nodded at his ring, then at the dance floor where Victor was migrating through the crowd. “He is Victor Nikiforov.”

As if that said it all.

He’d been Victor’s fan for most of his life and he knew what she meant. 90% of the skating world had been Victor’s fans for years and in some respects, he belonged to them. At last year’s qualifiers, he finally understood the consequences and responsibility of being the center of Victor’s world and there was no doubt he’d marked his territory in the skating sense.

He hoped he’d made his private claim clear as well, but only time would tell.

“He gets bored easily,” the woman continued when he didn’t respond. “I think you are very special, but don’t get complacent.”

Yūri felt a surge of irritation and bit his tongue. Coincidentally, Victor had found him and was ready to be reunited.

He ran a hand through his hair and gave her a beguiling grin as he extended a hand in Victor’s direction. The older man willingly straddled his lap, eyes only for him, and the two of them were drunk enough for what he wanted to do.

He rested a thumb on Victor’s lower lip and tugged it down slightly, leaning up to lick his way inside. The older man shuddered and made a small sound, tongues meeting. Yūri kept the kiss light and sneaked in a playful swipe here, a bit of teeth there, to catch Victor off guard and make his breath hitch.

He moved his mouth and brushed his lips over those high cheekbones. He smiled smugly at Victor and glanced at the woman out of the corner of his eye.

Victor’s gaze sharpened and he laid elegant fingers on Yūri’s chin. “Eyes on me, darling,” he murmured with a possessive smile. He tipped his head. “Dance with me.”

On the dance floor, the music changed to the remix of a Hispanic rock song. The Latin backbeat thumped in Yūri’s chest, begging to be shared. He beckoned Victor closer and hooked the taller man’s arms around his shoulders as he eased them into the basic salsa.

_Hola, me matas cuando caminas...con tu mirada me devoras  
(Hello, you kill me when you walk…with your look you devour me)_

_Tu sabes que me fascinas de esquina, a esquina de abajo a arriba  
(You know that you fascinate me, from corner to corner, from bottom to top)_

This time, they danced with full body contact and four shots of vodka humming in their blood. Victor was molten putty in his arms, completely receptive to Yūri’s every direction.

It was a rare, enchanting experience.

Pressed this close, Yūri was drunk on power, on the play of muscles under the pads of his fingers, the leonine grace under his control. Yūri led with his hands, pulling and prodding his partner on the waist, guided by his own selfish whims.

_Este fuego, fuego, con tus labios me quemo, quemo  
(This fire, fire, with your lips, I get burned, burned)_

Yūri’s hands wandered as he pushed them to the edge of their salsa repertoire. A dip teased the back of Victor’s firm thighs, traveling to cup his ass and squeeze in counterpoint. He pushed Victor into a duck, his palm chasing the flex and tension of the latissimus dorsi, the abdominals, as Victor swung under his leading arm. Victor was an athlete of the highest caliber, body trimmed down for flexibility and pure strength. Even the smallest movements translated into hypnotizing shifts in muscle he couldn’t get enough of. He wanted to touch Victor all over.

Victor was breathing hard, resonating with desire. Yūri nosed along the baby soft skin under his jaw and he shivered almost imperceptibly. Yūri tormented them both with barely-there kisses, amplified with tiny kitten licks over the moistened flesh.

Victor exhaled and rotated his hips helplessly.

Yūri was more than ready to go and see where the night took them. They stumbled home on the metro, ties askew, shirts rumpled, hands permanently attached to each other’s waists. Maccachin was sprawled out, asleep, on the couch, dead to their drunken fumbling. Victor nearly woke him up with an outraged shout after stepping on a chew toy, but Yūri kissed him preemptively.

He hoisted his pouting fiancé into the bedroom and onto the bed, crawling over his bouncing body and kissing him silly just because he could. And because Victor looked delicious with gelled silver strands coming loose and falling into eyes that captured Yūri with unreserved worship.

Victor’s love was a heady experience - slick and addictive – that made Yūri greedy for more.

Yūri caressed the silky, scratchy red fabric. He clenched it in his hand and yanked Victor’s face a little closer, his other hand slipping under his vest to thumb a clothed nipple. Victor was panting, shallow and rapid, eyes hazy, fingers pressing bruises into Yūri’s hip bones. He pinched the bud between his thumb and forefinger, and flexed his core, grinding down on the straining bulge between his thighs.

Victor, satisfiyingly, gave a high-pitched whimper of pleasure from the back of his throat. Yūri pulled his head back and mouthed under his jaw, chasing the sound.

“Haa….haaaa…Yuu~ri~,” Victor said it once, then he couldn’t seem to stop, chanting Yūri’s name over and over, breathless and needy.

“Victor, you’re so delicious,” Yūri mumbled in wonder between hard, sucking kisses. He moved down the length of his throat to the exposed skin of his collar, fingers fumbling with Victor’s buttons. He paused only to deliver a long, langourous lick up that beautiful Adam’s apple and feel Victor gulp under his mouth.

Yūri kissed his way down Victor’s torso, relishing the flex and tension of muscles as he stimulated nerve endings. He chanced a glance up.

Victor looked desperate and faint, overwhelmed, barely supporting himself on his elbows. Yūri curled his fingers under the waist of his slacks and the other man valiantly aborted a reflexive hip thrust.

Yūri couldn’t resist teasing him. He drew the waistline down, straining the fabric, and brushed his lips back and forth and around the fine hair leading down to the groin.

“Hnngh…” Victor gasped. He struggled with himself, the haze clearing, and deftly twisted them around.

Yūri wheezed in surprise. Victor granted him a smoldering look, straddling his hips, and moved to shrug off his clothes.

“Wait,” Yūri panted, hand on his arm. God, Victor was doing it _again_. But if he couldn’t have Victor desperate and out of his mind, he was damn well going to get _this_. “Keep the vest and tie.”

Victor stared at him in shock. Then, a slow, delighted smirk creased the Russian’s features. “Anything you want, darling,” he promised darkly.

That night, Victor gave Yūri an absolutely filthy blowjob on his knees, cock framed so prettily by the pointed hem of his waistcoat, red tie wrapped firmly in Yūri’s grip.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was walking down the street one day, arm-in-arm, that Yūri was inspired.

The sun was meandering down the horizon and they were making their way down Bolshoy prospekt to Tolstoy Square, cups of tea in hand from their favorite coffee shop. The sun was to the west, casting them both in shadow and Yūri had a moment of wishful thinking that it would be perfect if they were walking on the other side of the road. There, the orange, yellow light bending around tall buildings just might reach and Yūri could admire the sparkles in Victor’s hair.

It occurred to Yūri he’d look gorgeous in candlelight, eating katsudon, flushed with sake, and _oh so touchable_ , the way his beauty had tempted Yūri late at night in Hasetsu.

Yūri found he suddenly wanted that. Here, in Russia. He wanted to spoil Victor with affection, surround him with the memory of the town where they fell in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter got away from me. First I wrote the scenes. Then I expanded on interactions as they grew in my head, so there are choppy bits. And I've learned that it requires way more thinking when you want both partners to come across as equals and/or you're trying to avoid stereotypes. I hope someone likes this part ^_^. I waffle back and forth.
> 
> We're down to the last chapter and a missing scene that I'll post together, making 5 chapters total. There was a scene that I wanted to write within the context of chapter 4, but it ruined the symmetry and flow. Either that, or I couldn't stand reading two flowery sex scenes back to back. However, I think it serves a necessary purpose and ties some loose ends, so I prefer to leave it in.
> 
> I also want a picture of Victor on his knees in that waistcoat. jfc. 
> 
> Tell me what you think, please! You can also find me and scream at me on [ my tumblr ](http://espritneo.tumblr.com).


	4. Act II, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, all done. I appreciate those of you who have been here for the week these chapters were posted. I hope you enjoy it to the end.

Planning a surprise romantic dinner was incredibly difficult.

Yūri found himself spending more time than either of them wanted invading Yuri’s privacy and kitchen. The younger skater was only half-convinced this entire endeavour wouldn’t end up _ruining his life_ in some epic, teenage way, but both of them knew Hiroko’s recipe was the best variant of katsudon in all of Russia.

And Yūri promised that learning the recipe would be worth it for each of them.

And so, for two weeks, the two shopped and schemed, cooked and tasted on their days off. They waited impatiently for quality ingredients to be shipped. They burned endless tonkatsus, spoiled eggs until the topping matched their memories, simmered konbu until the dashi tasted right, and quarreled over ratios of mirin to soy sauce.

It was exhausting, devoting his spare time to more work and creativity after hours on the ice and days of pushing his body to the limits. Yūri fell asleep on the couch on ice days and woke up alone in bed, only to jog to the rink after his fiancé and start the cycle all over again. On his off days, he dragged himself out of a warm embrace and took the metro to Yuri’s apartment, all the while amazed with himself for _leaving behind_ a sleeping Victor Nikiforov, adorably rumpled and quiescent, arms looking empty without Yūri to fill them.

And Victor….started to look pale and tired. Yūri worried he was pushing himself too hard with his dual responsibilities, but the older man gently rebuffed his lectures on getting sick. Yakov yelled at him less often, maybe because he was distracted on the ice less and less, but Yūri wondered if maybe he wasn’t the only one that thought their ice princess was a shadow of his usual self.

Once, Yūri woke to find Victor kneeling on the floor, cradling his hand and just staring at it.

Yūri started to miss how the other man said his name.

Victor the coach grew exacting and difficult to please. He challenged Yūri’s endurance and tested his patience, _almost deliberately_. He hugged Yūri less and less, looked at him either like his student – _beneath him_ \- or with an oddly blank and restrained expression.

Yūri debated calling off the dinner. Yuri wouldn’t hear of it ( _after all the time you spent cluttering my kitchen, katsudon, I’ll murder you in your sleep_!).

They were so close to getting it right.

Somehow, he made it through. Their day off rolled around and Yūri doesn’t have to leave at the crack of dawn. He was awake, but he didn’t have anywhere to be. He twisted to face the silver-haired angel sharing his pillow and watched him sleep.

Victor had dark indents under his eyes and his mouth was twisted, but beyond that, he looked beautiful in the invading dawn. Yūri was glad they had left the east-facing windows open. It let him admire the play of warming sunlight on sleek muscles and pale skin, trace edges where Victor’s body was cast into shadow.

Victor woke at eight, wrapped in tanned, strong arms, and he twitched and hugged Yūri tightly, rolling them over and leaning in to kiss him deeply.

Victor made love to him, incredibly slow and intense, refusing to let them both come until they couldn’t stand it.

They spent the day with Maccachin, roaming the streets of St. Petersburg in quiet contemplation, arm-in-arm, pressed shoulder to hip, for the first time in three weeks. At four, Yuri blew up Victor’s phone - much to the Russian’s irritation – and the two parted ways: Victor to the rink and Yūri back home with Maccachin.

Yūri had exactly two hours to prepare. He detoured by Mira’s apartment on the way and retrieved his homemade dashi and store-bought ingredients. At home, he set the rice to cook and showered first, changing into the suit and tie Victor bought him in Barcelona.

Katsudon for two took no time at all. He set out the sake that was Minako’s goodbye present and was lighting the candles spread out all over the kitchen and living room when the lock turned and Victor stepped inside.

The expressions that flitted across the other man’s face – weary frustration, shock, disbelief - were gratifying. Almost as rewarding as stunning Victor Nikiforov into utter silence.

Yūri smiled and prodded the other man into the bedroom. “Go change, let’s pretend we’re having a night out. Just hurry.”

Victor disappeared into their closet. Yūri added the fresh touches – egg, toppings – and stood waiting by their small, round table for two.

Victor emerged from the open bedroom and Yūri’s heart skipped a beat because it was incredible that this man was his. Victor wore the charcoal suit Yūri remembered from the Sochi pictures. The candlelight danced across his features.

Victor stared at the table, lips thin, eyes wary, and Yūri grew uncertain.

“Is – was this a bad time? I thought, I wanted, you’re always making me feel special, sometimes you don’t even have to try, but you’re always paying attention and you’re on top of things in a way that I can’t hope to match. And I know you liked okaasan’s katsudon and you enjoyed it so much when we met and Minako gave me this sake when I left,” He flailed his arms desperately, his mouth running faster than his darkening thoughts, his sinking heart.

This was such a _bad idea_. He ventured, “It’s really good sake.”

Victor drew in a deep, bolstering breath and gave him a heartbreaking smile. “Yuu~ri~,” he trilled softly. “Did you do all this for me?” He sounded half-afraid of the answer.

Yūri’s chest tightened at the sound of his name and he let out a sigh from the pit of his bottomless anxiety, entire body relaxing in relief. “Yes.” He pulled out a seat for Victor. “Come eat, the egg will get cold.”

“This looks amazing,” Victor inspected the food with admiration. He snagged a piece and bit into the crispy breaded pork. “Vkusno!” He chirped in burgeoning delight, picking up his bowl and eating voraciously.

Yūri grinned and filled their sake cups. He forgot to eat, too happy with Victor’s obvious enthusiasm. He had been right. The candles did shine on his hair. And there was that heart-shaped smile.

The view was gorgeous.

“Oh?” Victor paused, nearly halfway done. “Aren’t you going to eat, Yūri?”

“Yes,” Yūri said simply, taking a few bites for show. He reached over and picked the rice that inevitably ended up on Victor’s cheeks.

He plied them both with food and drink until Victor could hold no more.

“Ahh,” Victor sighed, leaning back. “Yūri, how did you learn to cook like that? It was practically Hiroko-kaasan’s katsudon. I miss her cooking, we should ask for care packages. Can food keep if it’s frozen?”

Yūri laughed, charmed and so, so happy he’d succeeded. “I’ve been practicing at Yura’s on my off days.” Across the table, Victor looked floored. “It took a ridiculously long time, but you’re worth it.” He impulsively reached over and tangled their fingers together.

Victor tugged and guided him onto his lap. The older man searched his face. “That’s,” his voice cracked. “ _That’s_ where you’ve been?” He looked like he wanted to say more. He paused and looked mildly ashamed. Yūri watched his throat bob painfully and tried to see the past three weeks through his eyes.

“Victor,” he raised his free hand and lifted silver bangs, revealing ocean-blue eyes, slightly crinkled with barely-concealed hurt. “This was important to me.” He started slowly, seeking to understand himself as much as he wanted Victor to understand. “I love you. And I wanted to do something nice for you.”

Victor’s grip on his hand tightened. “What?” He said in disbelief, hope imbuing the word with layers of meaning.

Yūri reddened and almost refused to repeat himself. He covered his mouth. “I love you.”

Glass tears reflected the candlelight and Victor hid his face in Yūri’s clothes. Yūri encircled him in his arms, befuddled. “You’ve never told me that before.”

Victor’s fingers clutched his front, fingers spasming. Tears continued to fall and dot his shirt, his suit.

“And don’t stare at me,” the Russian admonished, self-consciously, without looking up. He didn’t sound distraught. “I’m just happy, okay?”

Yūri nodded slowly, still not catching on why Victor was moved to tears.

Then, it dawned on him.

He, Yūri….

_Was an idiot._

When Victor had said he _didn’t want to assume_ , Yūri had thought he just meant sex.

Now he was pretty sure Victor had been _wooing him_. Since they first had sex in April. Because _Yūri_ was a class-A moron who _hadn’t noticed_.

Clearly they were going to have to talk about this. But right now, something else was much more important.

“I love you,” Yūri repeated firmly. “I’ve loved you forever, Victor. I love you as much as you love me and that is one thing I will _never_ doubt.”

Finally, Victor lifted his head and smiled brilliantly, and it was _completely unfair_ how amazing and devoted he looked when Yūri had caused him so much uncertainty.

“I love you,” Victor whispered into the softness of his hair, a benediction. He sounded exhausted and exalted in equal measure.

“Me too,” Yūri promised into his neck. “I’m going to show you just how much.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You know,” Yuri Plisetsky leaned on the barrier with mock thoughtfulness. “I never thought I’d say this, but,” he gritted his teeth and thrust a fist in Yūri’s face. “THE TWO OF YOU ARE _EVEN MORE DISGUSTING_ THAN BEFORE.”

Yūri held up his hands in regret and apology.

Unfortunately, the teenager was absolutely correct. Victor, completely secure and confident in Yūri’s affections, was now the bane of the Russian team’s existence. He flaunted himself for Yūri at every opportunity, giving Georgi’s lovestruck antics a run for their money. Yakov took to giving Victor instructions _through Yūri_ half the time because Victor was busy mooning at his fiancé anyways. The singles and pairs skaters suffered his spontaneous urges to dance with Yūri on the ice, forcing them to widen their spatial awareness at all times. The ice dance teams got caught up once word went around the two men had better chemistry than the rest of them and only their technique held them back.

Mira was the only one who had no complaints about the entire situation because she was always _egging him on_.

Like now, for example. The two were having a jumping battle for Yūri’s hand in marriage. Mira didn’t even _like_ jumps.

On the ice, Victor – _the amazing asshole_ – floated through the four and a half revolutions of a quad axel, landing with an edge so deep and glorious, his free skate scratched the surface of the ice. He did a little running edge sequence and waved excitedly with windmilling arms. “Yuu~ri~!!! I love you!” He preened, causing every skater to turn and stare.

“Oh my god,” Yūri moaned into his hands.

At least he could be grateful Victor’s jumping wasn’t derailed in the slightest.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Victor and Yūri had routines. Victor did the laundry on ballet afternoons. Yūri tidied up before he went to practice. They traveled to the rink with lunches made. They alternated between cooking and reheating leftovers. Most of the time, they seemed so ridiculously grown-up, their love of surprises tended to throw the world for a loop.

And they still hadn’t christened the kitchen.

“Yuu~ri~!” Victor complained, impatient and needy. “Yūri, please, more, _now_.”

Yūri popped his mouth off and glared. “ _Vitya_ ,” Victor whimpered. “If we do it too fast, we’ll forget the wine reduction.”

Victor slammed his head back against the cupboards in protest. “Oh, my god, Yūri. It’s been hours. I _can’t_.” His voice climbed an octave.

“Yes, you can,” Yūri pulled his unresisting body to the edge of the counter, spread his palms flat on the meat of Victor’s thighs, pressing until his knees touched the granite. Victor made an inarticulate sound as Yūri licked up the underside of his dick. He squirmed, unable to thrust with his legs spread so obscenely.

The wine and tomato paste had been simmering for about ten minutes. Which meant he had another ten to prep Victor.

“Shh, shh,” He crooned into the slick juncture of Victor’s thighs. Victor’s hips were shaking, muscles jumping in staccato. He breathed hotly over his most private place, mouthed those _pretty, pretty_ plump, pink balls, rolling first one, then the other over his tongue, playing with the weight and tender firmness.

“Yūri, Yūri,” Victor’s head lolled against the wood. “Please, please, Yūri, I’ll do anything, just please,” it didn’t sound like he knew what he was saying anymore. “Please touch me. I want – just _please -_ ”

He spent some time nosing into the crevice between thigh and groin, breathing in the scent of Victor’s desperation. Victor’s hands gripped his hair tightly, trying to nudge him along. Just because he was a little shit, Yūri peered up at the Russian’s hot, wrecked face, and winked. Victor’s features spasmed.

Five minutes.

Yūri swallowed him down to the root. Victor shouted and would have come if he hadn’t pinched the base.

Victor thumped his shoulders and muttered angrily in Russian.

Yūri just swallowed and felt the body underneath quiver and melt.

“Ohhh, _oh…oh…._ ”

He bobbed his head and sucked voraciously, gradually increasing his tempo as the seconds passed.

Victor’s body started to writhe under his grip, tensing and twisting, his wet mouth hanging open and emitting punched out sounds. Yūri teased him just under the head. Victor’s face constricted and he shrieked.

 _There_ was that second octave.

Yūri wrapped his testicles in a warm, sweaty hand. Victor gave a strangled heave and curled over him, legs contracting, toes curling, as he came. Yūri nursed him through the aftershocks until he trembled from oversensitivity.

Ah, just in time.

Yuri stroked Victor’s face, sticky perspiration the only thing keeping his limp form from sliding off the countertop, and threw the broth, thyme and chicken into the pot, and when the broth started to boil, tossed the entire thing into the oven to cook for an hour.

Then he hauled his dazed fiancé over to their round table and set him flat on his back. With Victor still gasping for breath, he set to work opening him up with one hand, the other gripping the back of the man’s neck and forcing him to keep eye contact.

Victor looked punch-drunk on endorphins, eyes black as the night and face rose red. His lips were shiny and bruised from hours of kissing and foreplay.

It was going to take a miracle for them to last another forty-five minutes.

Yūri chanted a prayer and hoisted Victor’s leg up and over his shoulder. The act twisted his waist and Victor clutched the edge of the table weakly with both hands.

Yūri slid on a condom and pushed in slowly, watching Victor’s face for any sign of discomfort. Post-orgasmic Victor was at his most relaxed and the older man just rolled his eyes back in bliss until Yūri bottomed out.

He wasn’t hard. Yet.

Yūri carefully pressed his leg back until it touched his chest. He let Victor’s head rest on the wooden surface, paused to sweep a hand over his forehead, clearing the bangs.

Victor captured his wrist and held it steady, mouthing over his pulse, eyes closed.

Yūri planted his feet and set a slow steady rhythm, pressing in deep and withdrawing almost completely, letting the ephemeral sensation of Victor’s exhales guide his movements.

Victor looked absolutely sated, a satisfied god willing and ready to take its due. He planted kisses languidly over Yūri’s palm, sucking lightly on the salty, damp skin, teasingly traveling from pinky to the base of his thumb with light nips and a hint of tongue.

Yūri shuddered and thrust a bit harder than he intended.

Victor groaned and bit down on Yūri’s knuckle. He sucked on the thumb in his mouth, tongue dancing wicked patterns over the sensitive pad.

“Harder, Yūri,” he mumbled. His erection was half-awake, shining with spit and pre-come. Victor moved his hips, moaning around Yūri’s fingers and sucking greedily.

Yūri set his back to it and rotated his hips on his next plunge. Victor shivered involuntarily, ankles twitching. His eyes were open again, aware and needy, insistent. His insides were starting to take an active interest in building friction with Yūri’s cock.

Yūri changed the angle again. Victor’s grip on his wrist tightened, his back arched and the slick heat around Yūri’s length trembled. Yūri slowed his pace as much as he could bear, ignoring the dark outrage in cobalt eyes, the vengeful hint of teeth.

Yūri smirked and carefully avoided hitting his prostate directly.

He pumped in and out in slow, measured glides that stimulated the sensitive bundle incessantly. Until Victor’s fingers went numb and his tongue grew thick and he gasped for breath and Yūri had to push his own fingers into that pliant, wet cavern and explore. Until his walls undulated in waves of phantom orgasm, making them both groan.

“Victor, _Vitya_ , you feel _amazing_ , love, you’re so pretty, and you’re mine, _mine_ , _mine_ ,” Yūri rambled, adulation in his words, his mouth, hands, and cock, all for beautiful, _beautiful_ man. Victor whined in agreement, making vulnerable, high-pitched noises. His ass grabbed Yūri’s cock tenaciously, rippling over his hardness, sucking him in when he tried to leave.

Victor bared his neck in a long, luxurious arch. His dick was weeping openly now, thin, sticky strands tying it to his skin as it bounced.

“Yūri,” Victor groaned around the fingers stroking his tongue, the roof of his mouth. “Feels so good, Yūri.” He convulsed, his hole tightening. “You feel so, _so_ good. Vkusno.”

Oh god. Yūri let a violent shiver stutter his hips. He gasped into the bend of Victor’s knee. “Vitya, you dummy, you can’t _say_ that.”

Victor doesn’t hear him. He has one hand on his straining erection, pumping it in time. “I’m going to come,” he confessed longingly, his voice sending chills down Yūri’s spine. “Oh, I’m going to come.”

Just for that, Yūri hammered his prostate, making him curse and tense into a beautiful bow, come splattering his neck and chest. “Yūri!” He moaned.

Yūri tucked his face into Victor’s thigh and whined his own completion, Victor’s soft insides relentlessly milking him dry.

“Fuck,” He slurred into Victor’s chest, long minutes later. Victor mindlessly patted his shoulder in fellow feeling.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That evening, they attended a semi-formal dinner with Lilia in her exquisite home. They brought along the afternoon’s cooking project, which miraculously survived despite being left in the oven an extra half hour because Yūri couldn’t feel his legs.

The coq au vin tasted delicious.

“Vkusno!” Victor smacked his lips in delight, smirking as Yūri got hot and bothered two feet from the world legendary prima ballerina. Yūri, doing his best to school his features, was suddenly reminded of one thing he’d known from the start.

Victor Nikiforov was a petty, _petty_ asshole.

 

Fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget, the missing scene is in the next chapter!


	5. Missing scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing scene, set soon after the dinner in Chapter 4.

Missing scene – In which Yūri shows his love

Kisses.

Deep, lush, wet kisses were something they both highly enjoyed. Yūri could spend hours tangling tongues with Victor because there was so much more to the act than the meeting of mouths. There was learning and rediscovering the shape of Victor’s hand and intertwining fingers to fit one palm against the other, knuckle to knuckle, sideways, or back to front.

There was trailing his fingers blindly up his arm and feeling the soft hairs stand on end and learning that traveling over biceps instead of triceps drew out irrepressible tremors along Victor’s spine.

It was legs entwining, heat rising, Victor’s touch sending ripples of fire –

“Victor.”

Victor pulled back, chastened.

Yūri poked his forehead with two fingers. “Relax.” He nudged over their shared space. Lying on their sides made kissing so much easier. He could focus on Victor’s quiet panting, on timing his actions around Victor’s eager desire, and on learning the sounds he could coax out of that lovely throat.

He kissed Victor into languid submission, until the other man lost his focus and forgot his mission in life was to make Katsuki Yūri feel like a treasure. It was the easiest thing in the world to do because Yūri could think of no better way to spend his time than lie this close to Victor and use his love to take him apart.

When Victor was pliant around the hips, his hands still, his mouth soft, the Russian only grumbled in protest as he was manhandled onto his other side. Yūri shushed him with a melody of light kisses up and down his neck, breathing into a spot just behind his ear and enjoying the startled gasp, shudder, and subtle arch.

Their right hands found each other and Yūri let their fingers play, sweeping his free hand up and down Victor’s side, patient, unlike Victor, who had to be convinced to curb a year’s worth of ingrained habits.

A year of first expectantly pursuing Yūri then abruptly shifting mindset to loving Yūri without expecting anything in return.

Yūri had to curtail his own self-irritation for a moment; the last thing he wanted was to change the theme of this dance. He could get mad at himself again later for not being omniscient, for having a fiancé that kept quiet all these months… _okay,_ that did sound pretty ridiculous. Victor was ridiculous. Victor who barged in, flooded his world with light, love, and undeniable safety, and then had the audacity to doubt it.

Yūri pinched his nipple in retaliation.

“Y-Yūri….” Victor squirmed hotly, arcing into and away from his touch. Yūri twisted and tugged the nipple between his fingers and Victor whined softly into the pillow. His legs shifted restlessly, pushing him deeper into Yūri’s arms.

“Kiss me, Yūri?” Victor said plaintively, already pulling back into self-awareness.

Yūri obliged and spent several minutes conquering Victor by sweetly teasing the corners of his lips, licking lazily over the seam until he opened up. He built up the heat by striking the erogenous zones in his mouth. Yūri had gotten incredibly good at kissing over three months, but he was an expert only on the Victor-centric kind.

Victor unconsciously ground back against him. Yūri ran his left hand over his cock and stroked the hardening flesh in time with his tongue, in and out, up and down, making Victor tremble as he was tenderly fucked on both ends.

“I was twelve the first time I saw you.” Yūri confessed into shell of his ear, letting his words and his heat wind them both up. “I thought you were a _tennin_ and out of the corner of my eye, I fancied I could see your wings. You were with me almost constantly, moving me forward.”

Victor was listening; his ears flushed red with embarrassment even as the bloom of arousal spread down his chest and made his hips falter. Yūri slipped his left hand under Victor’s and brought them back to his groin.

“I got older; when I’d touch myself at night, I would imagine you were behind me, just like this, holding me while I jerked off.”

Victor mewled, hand tightening around Yūri’s and urging him to go faster.

“Vitya,” Victor froze and squeezed their hands forcefully over the head, juddering. “Do you want to finish like this, Victor?” Yūri lipped his earlobe. “Tell me what you want, Vitya. I want to make you feel good.”

“Get the lube, darling.” Victor rasped when he could speak again, voice threatening to break. He turned his head, bringing their eyes centimeters apart. His cobalt irises were dark and determined, lost in hunger. “Yūri…” He nuzzled hotly. “I want to feel you, Yūri. Get the lube, I want to feel you inside,” He devolved into coaxing Russian, pressing hasty kisses over Yūri’s chin.

Yūri was fairly certain Victor had never bottomed before. And _he_ was kind of a virgin. Technically, Yūri knew what to do. But Victor was the entirety of his sexual experience. And he had always been on the receiving end.

_This is a dance,_ Yūri reminded himself. Reminded his anxiety.

And he knew his partner very well. He had months of experience with the language of Victor’s love on and off the ice. He knew how to soften the sharp, egocentric arcs of a man unused to sharing the stage. He knew the tempo of Victor at the edge of losing his self-control. He was intimately familiar with how he shattered just before he came.

Mind made up, Yūri rolled onto his back and groped under the pillows with his left hand. Leaving Victor in charge of his right hand made finding the lube challenging.

His seeking fingers closed around the plastic tube. Yūri made a soft noise of triumph and curled back around his fiancé. He dropped the tube by their hands and indulged himself with running a hand over Victor’s chest, tucking his nose just behind the curve of Victor’s jaw and inhaling.

He could do this.

Victor’s body did not lie. All he had to do was listen.

This was _their_ dance.

He brushed his lips up and back, committing the surface to memory. He noted the imperfections. Victor had clusters of tiny freckles along his hairline and each constellation received equal attention.

Victor quivered under his ministrations, still fresh from his near-orgasm. Yūri hummed, enamored with finding yet more weak spots. His left hand made its way down, applying firm pressure over sensitive skin. He clicked open the lube with his right and squeezed the gel onto his left, warming it between his fingertips before taking Victor in hand and lightly stroking.

Victor gave a guttural groan, biting the pillow. Yūri rubbed his length a few more times then made him take over. Victor shuddered and did so reluctantly; he was turned on enough to be sorely tempted into finishing himself off and Yūri knew it.

Yūri fondled his balls and nudged his left thigh with his own, bending the limb and giving him access to Victor’s entrance.

He planted a messy open-mouthed kiss to the nape of Victor’s neck, just under the hairline as he pushed at the tight ring.

Victor gave a violent shiver and went limp, a broken sound escaping his chest.

Yūri kept him on the edge of the cliff as he learned his way. Victor was incredibly soft inside, so _alive_ , rejecting and clutching his fingers in turns.

Yūri scissored his fingers and dragged them out millimeter by millimeter, gaping at the sensation of Victor melting and yielding, falling back and staying open.

He added a third finger and twisted them around, searching.

Out of the blue, his right ring finger slid into hot, wet suction. Victor tongued the edges of his gold ring, instantly sending all the blood to his neglected erection.

“ _Fuuuuuck_.” Yūri keened, surprised and abruptly lightheaded. He gave a full-body jerk, his fingers twitching and accidentally pressing as they passed a small bump.

Victor bit down around the ring with a muffled cry, mouthing and sucking, seeking relief. The rough surface of his tongue rubbed furiously against Yūri’s finger in a pale imitation of sex.

Yūri pressed close with an echoing moan, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. They both curved inwards, shaking, riding out the unexpected surge of arousal.

Yūri didn’t even _know_ he had a ring kink. _Fuck…_ Victor was going to milk this for _years._

Somehow, Yūri managed to keep his fingers moving, spreading Victor open as they both fought not to come.

Victor was murmuring mindlessly, of what Yūri had no idea, but it was redundant. He knew what Victor needed, he knew what would satisfy him at this moment in time. It was screaming at him in the lines of his body, the coming and going of many opportunities for release.

Victor wanted to come and he wanted to come with Yūri inside. He wasn’t going to settle for anything less.

Working himself inside took effort and patience. Yūri struggled with slipping out. And Victor was unbearably tight.

And they were both too wound up.

Every bit of progress was costly. Yūri was on the edge and every centimeter felt like victory over the inevitable. He suspected he wasn’t going to last long _at all_. But that was okay. Victor didn’t need much. The Russian was already on the path to no return, hips moving of their own volition even as Victor sought to calm down.

Victor rolled more onto his front, raising his ass and extending their right arms towards the headboard. He dug his forehead into the mattress and blindly reached out, finding Yūri’s free hand and bringing it close to his chest.

“I love you,” Victor gasped wetly. The nape of his neck was warm and damp, sweat clinging to the hairline. He clenched their intertwined right fingers, lilting words flowing out of him, arrested only with the need for air. “I love you. You feel so perfect, let me just,” his back bowed, he buried his face into their forearms. “Just let me love you forever, Yūri, I won’t ask for anything more, haa….”  

Yūri tucked his head next to Victor’s and dug his toes into the mattress. He was barely thrusting, just moving in and out, giving Victor what he needed. He unconsciously butted his face closer, forcing the Russian rest the side of his head on their forearms and let Yūri mash their faces together, noses clashing. They barely breathed, tasting each other’s air, doing their best to hold onto this momentary feeling.

Victor broke first, scrunching up his brow and groaning low as he came in long drawn-out spurts. Yūri was right there with him not a split-second later, stifling his cries into Victor’s cheek.

After some time, Yūri moved to get up. Victor stubbornly clung to the parts he could reach. “Stay, don’t leave.”

“I’m just going to clean us up. I’ll be right back.”

“Do it tomorrow,” Victor pleaded. “It’ll keep.” His visible eye reiterated, _don’t leave._

Yūri settled for clumsily wiping them dry with tissues from the bedside table.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, Victor awoke to the nonstop vibrations of his mobile against the nightstand. He blearily smacked it closer and fumbled with the lock screen.

There were thousands of instagram notifications. Acquaintances, fans, athletes...all in response to his last update.

Victor’s breath caught. His hand felt weak.

Yūri had posted an image on his account. He was sound asleep, bundled under the covers, Yūri’s cheek pressed to his, the man’s arm slightly in frame. Yūri had given the camera a soft, proud smile.

_@v-nikiforov My first and last love,_ the caption read. _#stpetersburg_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I just lost all my teeth to the sugar in this fic....It's great.
> 
> I loved hearing about your reactions; what were your favorite bits? What caught you off guard? How did this rendition of Victuuri resonate with you?


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